Mrs. Tim of the Regiment

by D. E. Stevenson

  Guthrie, who has been waiting with ill-concealed impatience for the end of the story, now jumps up and says we had better be getting under way. Whereupon Mrs. Falconer exclaims that these nautical expressions are so intriguing, and how do you spell it? Is it weigh? And has it anything to do with weighing the anchor?

  ‘Yes, rather,’ says Guthrie. ‘We weigh the anchor every morning to see how much it has lost during the night. You’ve heard the expression that a ship is losing way, haven’t you, Cousin Milly?’ And goes out hurriedly, before anything more can be said.

  Mrs. Falconer smiles vaguely and repeats her conviction that it is all most intriguing, adding, that if she had a son, she would insist on his going into the navy just like dear Elspeth. Whereupon ‘dear Elspeth’ replies, uncompromisingly, that she did everything she could to prevent Guthrie from going into the navy, short of locking him in the tool shed.

  We start off for the loch, Guthrie laden with mackintoshes, rollocks, fish bags, rods, etc. He refuses to let Miss Baker carry anything, but I am allowed to carry the landing net and a fly book without any argument. It is still very warm and I am nearly boiled in my tweeds, but have been too well drilled by Tim to think of donning any other garb for a sporting expedition. Miss Baker glides along in her light frock, collecting wild flowers, and looking very charming indeed. Guthrie can’t keep his eyes off her, nor reply rationally to my attempts at conversation.

  Guthrie sits down in the thwarts, and assembles his rod with the loving care of an experienced fisherman. His hands look big and clumsy, but they are strangely neat as he threads the reel line from ring to ring. I have made up my mind to assume the role of boatman, in which I have had considerable experience when fishing with Tim. So far from any objection being raised at this altruism on my part, I find that both my companions accept it as the obvious solution to the problem. In fact, so far as they are concerned, it is not a problem at all. Feel slightly aggrieved at this, as I should have liked the chance of refusing to throw a cast.

  ‘What are you putting on, Elsie?’ says Guthrie, frowning over his flies. His face changes as he looks up and sees her open a large fly book full of made-up casts.

  ‘These are the ones for Scotch lochs,’ says Elsie brightly.

  ‘I’ll show you how to make up your own,’ he offers with a shy smile.

  ‘But these are the right thing,’ Elsie replies. ‘I mean to say they’re specially made for Scotch lochs; the man in the shop said so.’

  Nothing more is said about casts, but the next two hours provide an interesting object lesson in the counter-attractions of love and sport. I feel quite sorry for the wretched girl, she puts her foot in it so often, and so unconsciously. Guthrie starts, like a perfect gentleman, by giving his young woman the best drifts, but begins to tire of the game when she has lost two good trout, dropped her rod into the water, and caught him on the ear with her tail fly.

  ‘I’ll take the right-hand cast this time,’ he says as we approach a black rock, which, even to my inexperienced eye, looks a likely spot for a big one.

  Suddenly Guthrie’s reel screams, and his rod is bent like a hoop: ‘It’s a whopper!’ he says excitedly. ‘Back the boat, Mrs. Christie.’

  The boat is already backed for Guthrie to play his fish. Twice he brings it up to the boat, and twice it rushes away and lurks beneath the shadow of the rock. Miss Baker has laid down her rod in the boat so as to land Guthrie’s fish for him; two of her flies are deeply embedded in my skirt, but the moment is too thrilling for trifles to matter.

  ‘Here we are,’ Guthrie says, winding in his reel. ‘The fight’s out of him now – well under him, Elsie.’

  Miss Baker seizes the net, and dashes at the fish excitedly, and the next moment the fish has gone, and Guthrie’s line lies limply on the water.

  ‘Good heavens! Have you never landed a fish before?’ he cries.

  ‘Of course I have,’ replies Elsie hotly. ‘I always land them for Dad – that one wasn’t hooked properly – ’ ‘Hooked? Of course it was hooked – you knocked the hook right out of its mouth.’

  Elsie looks at him with dewy eyes.

  ‘Never mind,’ he says hastily. ‘I expect it was my fault better luck next time.’

  Peace is restored. We try another drift a good one near some weeds. This time Miss Baker catches herself.

  I am about to back away from the weeds to rescue the damsel in distress when Guthrie says: ‘Never mind just now, Mrs. Christie, we’ll just drift gently on to the weeds keep the boat round a little for me. That’s great!’

  There is a light in his eye that I have seen before in Tim’s I know the meaning of it well. I edge the boat gently along, hardly daring to breathe. Meanwhile, Miss Baker struggles wildly to disentangle the Greenwell’s Glory from the lace of her hat I can see she is anxious not to tear the lace.

  Suddenly a trout rises and turns over Guthrie’s tail fly, eyeing it with suspicion. He casts again over the same place, and the next moment his reel is running out.

  ‘You’ve got him!’ I cry breathlessly.

  We back out of the drift, and I land a beautiful fat trout for him with great success.

  ‘I’ve torn the lace,’ says Elsie, with a singular lack of discernment. She ought – of course – to have admired Guthrie’s trout.

  ‘I say, what a pity!’ Guthrie says sympathetically. ‘And it’s such a pretty hat, too – must be a pound and a half at least,’ he adds, gazing with admiring eyes at the still wriggling trout with its spotted sides and silver scales. Elsie replies that it was three guineas, but Guthrie is not listening; he is planning a fresh campaign.

  ‘We might try the bay on the north side,’ he says. ‘I’ve often got a good fish over there.’

  It has suddenly become colder, and a nice breeze has got up. The bitter-sweet smell of sun-warmed gorse comes in an occasional hot whiff of scent over the cooling water. Miss Baker shivers, and remarks that she thinks we had better go in now.

  ‘Good Lord!’ cries Guthrie. ‘We’ve only just started. You don’t want to go in, do you, Mrs. Christie?’

  ‘Oh, no! This is the best time of day,’ I reply. I feel rather a traitor to my sex, but comfort myself by the reflection that it is for Mrs. Loudon’s sake. I hope the girl will not get pneumonia or I shall feel like a murderer. Miss Baker evidently realises that she has not shown to advantage as a fisherwoman; she offers to take the oars for a bit, so we change places and try the north bay. Guthrie is torn between his fondness for the new boatwoman and annoyance at her inefficiency.

  ‘That’s right, Elsie!’ he says. ‘You’re doing splendidly – keep her out a bit more, can’t you see you’re drifting over the best bit of water? You’re an excellent boatman. Good Lord, don’t splash like that, you’re frightening every fish in the loch! Keep out, keep out – splendid – we’re sure to get one in a minute – don’t let the boat turn round like that – ’

  By this time the wretched girl is blue with cold. Even Guthrie sees it. He looks at her appraisingly, and says she ought to have put more on. ‘Perhaps we had better land you,’ he adds kindly. Miss Baker jumps at the suggestion, and we row back to the boathouse.

  ‘You’ll come, too, won’t you, Guthrie?’ she says, as she watches him land her rod and fishing tackle.

  Guthrie hesitates; he looks at the loch, which is covered with small ripples from shore to shore. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I think, if you don’t mind, we’ll go on for a bit – we’ve only got one so far – and you can easily find the way up to the house – it’s no distance –just follow the path, you can’t go wrong.’

  Miss Baker looks surprised and disappointed, but has the sense not to make a scene. Their ‘good-bye’ can be no more than friendly, with me sitting in boat. Guthrie does not think of leading her behind the boathouse, his mind is too full of ripples; he does not even follow her with his eyes as she trips gracefully up the path, carrying her rod and fly book.

  We fish until nine o’clock, and return tired and cold, but at pe
ace with the world. Our bag consists of nine good trout, of which two are mine.

  Third June

  Mrs. Loudon having disappeared into the kitchen, I find my way to the flower room with the laudable intention of helping my hostess by doing the flowers for her. (I rather pride myself on my skill in this branch of domestic economy.) I am discovered in the act by Mrs. Loudon, who has polished off her housekeeping in record time.

  ‘You’ll take your hands off those flowers at once,’ she says fiercely. ‘What do you think you’re here for? You’re here for a holiday, my girl, and don’t you let me catch you doing a hand’s turn in this house or I’ll pack you into the next south train, bag and baggage.’

  Fortunately I am sufficiently acquainted with my hostess not to be alarmed by her ferocity, so I merely put my arm round her waist, and give her a little squeeze.

  ‘You and your blandishments!’ she says scornfully, but is quite pleased all the same.

  Mrs. Loudon’s idea of doing the flowers is to cram every receptacle as full as she possibly can. I remain and offer a few words of advice on the subject, although I am not allowed to touch them. Suddenly she throws the flowers into the sink, and seizing me by the arm, demands in a hoarse whisper, ‘Hester, how did you do it? I’ve been wondering the whole night long. How on earth did you get rid of her?’

  I reply that I made a cold breeze spring up, and covered the loch with the most fascinating ripples.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past you,’ she says, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘I may tell you the lassie was starved with cold when she got here – frozen to the marrow. I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for her.’

  I reply that I was sorry for her, too, and that I trust she will not die of pneumonia.

  ‘Not she. I gave her a good dose of cherry brandy – ’ this is Mrs. Loudon’s panacea for every ill, and not a bad one either. ‘And now away with you,’ she adds in her normal voice. ‘I’ll never get those flowers dressed with you standing there trying to cram your newfangled notions down my throat – ’ here she forces three more wretched tulips into an already bursting vase. ‘Away with you into the garden. Take a book with you, and give an old woman some peace.’

  So I depart into the garden with a book; but I have no intention of reading it. Instead, I lie in a long chair, and look at the mountains. Small clouds are trailing grey shadows over their calm bosoms. There is a single pine tree on the lower slopes, so near, it looks, that I could almost reach upward and pick it. The things pertaining to Martha fall away from me, and a blessed feeling of idleness encompasses my soul. I have not got to remember anything neither to order fish, nor to count the washing. I need not – write an order for the grocer, nor hunt after Maggie to see if she has cleaned the silver and brushed the stairs. The condition of Cook’s temper is of no consequence to me, there are no domestic jars to be smoothed over. No sudden appeals to my authority, requiring the wisdom of Solomon and the diplomacy of Richelieu, can disturb my peace.

  My thoughts drift across the garden and hang upon the trees like fairy lights, or curl upwards and vanish like the smoke of Burnside chimney. I can take a thought from the cupboard of my memory – just as I take a dress from my wardrobe – give it a little shake and put it on, or fold it away.

  A bird singing in a pear tree brings back my childhood, and an orchard knee-deep in grass. Richard stands before me with the sun shining in his fair hair. ‘Have a bite, Hessy,’ he says – and the strange sour tang of that pear makes my mouth water at this very moment.

  How nice it is to lie here in blameless idleness, and let these vagrant memories flow through my body like a cool stream!

  Somewhere in the world there must be a formula (am I trembling upon the edge of it now?) which, could I but grasp it, would reveal to me the Secret of the Universe. For there must be a secret, of course; the world would never roll over and over on its way through Time and Space if everyone’s thoughts were as vagrant and purposeless as mine. This secret, once known, would string my thoughts together like a necklace of pearls.

  But where to look for the secret – where to find it? Those mountains, dreaming so peacefully in the sunshine – do they possess it? Could I wrest it from their eternal silence? Shall I find it in the swallow’s jagged flight, as it darts across the garden in pursuit of flies? Shall I find it in the call of the cuckoo, echoing sadly from the pine-clad hills? Or is it hidden deep in the hearts of human beings – a piece here and a piece there – so that if you could find all the pieces and fit them together, the puzzle would be complete? But the hearts of human beings are so difficult to find people are so sealed up in themselves, withdrawn behind impenetrable barriers.

  A bee drones past seeking honey in the golden bells of the daffodils from one to another he quests with intermittent buzz. Are the flowers secret to him as people are to me? Or does he, tasting their sweetness, taste the very essence of their being, and know their souls? . . .

  ‘Oh, to be in England now that May has come!’ exclaims a rapturous voice from behind my chair. (I have been so deep in thought that I have not heard Mrs. Falconer’s approach.) ‘Only, of course, we are in Scotland really – and it’s June. Perhaps you don’t know the poem I was quoting, Mrs. Christie. It is by a man called Byron – or was it Rupert Brooke? No,’ she continues, sitting down beside me and producing her knitting. ‘No, it couldn’t have been Rupert Brooke, because he only wrote things about the war (although he did write something about “England being here”, I know), but I remember learning this poem in 1892 when I was quite a child. I really was quite young at the time, but I have never forgotten it. Us girls did not go to school. Papa did not approve of – school for girls. We were taught at home by a Miss Posten such a very ladylike woman, she was, and most accomplished.’

  I murmur feebly that I feel sure she must have been.

  ‘Yes, indeed, most accomplished,’ says Mrs. Falconer complacently. ‘I always think us girls owe a lot to Miss Posten, and I make a point of saying so whenever possible. I think it is only right to give people their due. I never saw anybody who could make a ribbon-work rose so beautifully as Miss Posten. It was so like a real rose that I used to tell her the birds would come and peck at it if she left it out of doors. Just like that artist who painted a picture of fruit, and the birds pecked at it because they thought it was real. I can’t remember the name of the man, but Miss Posten always enjoyed the little joke.’

  Mrs. Falconer flows on until the gong sounds for lunch. We take our usual places round the table, and I proceed to enjoy the excellent food, which tastes all the better because I have not ordered it.

  ‘Well, Guthrie, dear!’ says Mrs. Falconer as she unfolds her table napkin, ‘I haven’t seen a hair of you all the morning. You remember, Elspeth, what a favourite expression that was with dear Papa – I have not seen a hair of you, he used to say.’

  Mrs. Loudon replies, rather shortly, that she has no recollection of hearing Mrs. Falconer’s father make use of the expression.

  ‘Oh, but you must remember, Elspeth. Hardly a day passed but he would come out with it. How we used to laugh! – ‘I haven’t seen a hair of you all day’ – Papa had the drollest way of saying things. And have you seen Miss Baker, Guthrie? Aha, you naughty boy! – I’m sure that’s where you’ve been.’

  Guthrie admits sulkily that he met Miss Baker in the village.

  Mrs. Falconer laughs. ‘I can’t help laughing,’ she says. ‘Such a funny name – BAKER – isn’t it? I always expect to see her hands all covered with flour, don’t you?’

  Guthrie replies with asperity: ‘No more than I expect to see you with a hawk on your wrist.’

  ‘A hawk!’ cries Mrs. Falconer. ‘My dear Guthrie, you need never expect to find me having anything to do with a hawk. Horrible creatures, pouncing down out of the sky and picking out your eyeballs. I once read a book about India which said that there was a hawk waiting in the sky every three miles. It made me feel quite creepy, and took away all my desire to go to India. Sn
akes I could bear, but hawks every three miles – no, no!’

  ‘Those were kites,’ Guthrie says, handing in his plate for a second helping of meringue. (I notice that, like most men, he has a very sweet tooth.)

  ‘Kites? Oh no, Guthrie dear! It was I who read the book, and you must really allow me to know best. A kite isn’t a bird at all; it is a sort of box made of paper. One of the boys had one the year we went to Littlehampton. (You remember me telling you about the year we went to Littlehampton, Elspeth?) He sailed it on a long piece of string. It always puzzled me how it stayed up in the air. Well, one day there was a high wind, and Edward’s kite went sailing over the housetops. We had a great hunt for it, and eventually we found it hanging on a rope in somebody’s garden, all amongst the clean clothes, and the clothes were so beautifully white that Mama decided, then and there, to send our linen to the woman to wash. The laundry we had before used to send the things home a sort of grey colour, and we found afterwards that they were hung out to dry next to the station yard. Well, that was all very well, and the linen was beautifully done, but things went amissing – first one of Papa’s collars, and then a very beautiful embroidered tablecloth which my grandmother had brought home from India. It was embroidered with elephants with hurdles on their backs – so quaint! There was an ivory fan as well, all made out of elephant’s tusks, but Mama broke it when she was out at dinner one night. Dear me, what was the name of those people? I’m sure it began with a W. Elspeth, you must surely remember the people I mean. Papa and Mama used often to dine with them, they lived in Holland Park, and kept a pug. I believe it was Abernethy or Golding, or something like that. Anyway, he was a Jew and very rich. So strange, isn’t it, that Jews never eat pork. I’m very fond of roast pork myself, but I must say I find it very indigestible.’